


Res Ipsa Loquitur

by Polly_Lynn



Series: Tumblr Methadone [6]
Category: Castle
Genre: Amnesia, Confessions, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 08:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7611067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They're going. Leaving a man who’s only known his own name for a few hours on the wrong side of a wire cage. A man who’s just politely thanked them for simply passing on information. The most they can do, even if it feels like the least.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Res Ipsa Loquitur

**Author's Note:**

> A short insert for “The Fifth Bullet” (2 x 11).

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They're going. Leaving a man who’s only known his own name for a few hours on the wrong side of a wire cage. A man who’s just politely thanked them for simply passing on information. The most they can do, even if it feels like the least. 

They’re going, and she’s as torn up about it as he is. That . . . compounds things. He wants to hold her hand about it. Or have her hold his. Whatever. He wants to give her something other than a heavy bag or paper target to work things out on. 

Except that’s exactly what she wants to work things out on, he supposes, and anyway, it’s more than a little messed up that he’s preoccupied with either of them—himself  _or_  her—given the circumstances. 

“Good luck, Jeremy.” 

He feels awful as soon as he says it. Worse, maybe, than if he’d said nothing, but they’re going, and all three of them seem to be having trouble with that. 

“Hey, if you figure it out, would you let me know?”

It’s a gut punch to them both when Jeremy Preswick calls after them, but she handles it with grace. With a promise and such reflexive empathy that no one could doubt that she means it. 

Preswick doesn’t doubt. Some measure of tension flows out of him. It lowers his shoulders an inch or two. Just for a second, then he’s back to looking shame faced. Surreally apologetic.

“I just think it’d be easier. Knowing why.” 

She nods, out of words for good now, and they’re going, except suddenly he can’t. He lays a hand on her elbow. Stops her just where the hallway gives out on to the bullpen. 

“I might . . .” He thinks about it. Realizes this is complicated. In the literal sense, for once. “Is it a problem if I stay for a few minutes?” 

“Castle . . .” She looks uneasy and relieved and annoyed with herself for being relieved. An unexpectedly-easy-to-read series of emotions in the slump of her shoulders and the tight, downward inflection of the corners of her mouth.

“They’ll transfer him soon, right?” He dives into the gap between uneasy and annoyed. “Can’t hurt just to keep him company.” 

“I don’t know, Castle.” She looks away. Plays at being stern, but he knows he’s won the day. The dead of night. Whatever. She gives him a side glance, her chin tucked against her shoulder, but it doesn’t quite hide a small smile. “I’ve been a casualty of your ‘company’ before. Recently, in fact.” 

“I  _said_  I’d pay for the dry cleaning,” he huffs. Plays it up, but he’s glad. They’re both glad that one of them can stay. 

“Yeah, you will.” She gives him an exaggerated scowl, but it bleeds away almost immediately. She glances at her watch. “It won’t be long,” she says in a low voice. “Tell him . . . just tell him I’ll do what I can. Emma will do what she can.” 

“I will,” he murmurs. But she’s already gone. 

 

* * *

  

“You guys are good,” Jeremy deadpans. 

“Good?” Castle crosses back into the spill of light outside the cell. 

“You’re back. I assume you must’ve cracked the case.” He gives Castle the wry, pleasant smile that’s so quickly become familiar. “So why did I do it? Why did I murder Victor Fink?” 

“We don’t know that you did.” The wheels turn in his head. He casts about for something. Anything. “We know you shot him.  _Probably_  shot him. So it’s a homicide, but we don’t know it’s a murder. It could have been manslaughter. Or maybe self-defense, and . . .” He steals a look at Preswick. Sees him turn a shade paler, even in the awful lighting. “And this isn’t comforting, is it?” 

“It’s not  _not_  comforting.” He sinks on to the bench. “All things considered, I guess I’d take killer over murderer.” 

“That’s not what you’re worried about, though.” Castle sits heavily as the realization hits. “I mean you’re not  _not_  worried about that, but . . .” 

He trails off, the words bleeding away in a sudden wash of guilt. He’s fascinating, this man. These utterly bizarre circumstances are fascinating, and here he is. Richard Castle: Best-selling author. Bottom-feeding looky-loo. 

It’s not why he’s here. He didn’t come back just because it’s a good story, and still . . .  

_Sorry_

The apology is soundless the first time. He swallows hard. Ramps up to try again, but Jeremy’s voice breaks the thick, uncomfortable silence.

“Emma.” 

There’s so much hanging on just the two syllables of her name. Fear. Longing. Guilt. Even pleasure in its newness. In its comfortable familiarity, though he's hardly known his own name longer than he's known her. 

“Emma,” Castle repeats. He pops to his feet, energized by the prospect of being able to do something— _anything_ —for this man he’s grown to like. “I can call her for you. I’m sure she’ll want to come down. I don’t know how long it’ll be before . . .” 

“No!” he cuts in sharply. He surges up from the bench, his knuckles whitening around the wire mesh. “I don’t want her here. I don’t want her to . . .” The air goes out of him abruptly. His fingers drag down the cage, ringing out as his hands fall to his sides. “I can’t put her through this.” 

“You’re not putting her through anything. She wants to help.” The memory has a smile tugging at his lips. “She was . . . pretty insistent on that point.” 

“She’s not even my wife anymore.” There’s anguish in his tone. The first sign of raw emotion from a man who’s been so even-keeled through the twists and turns of the last forty-eight hours. 

“You’re in love with her,” Castle blurts. He feels a rush inside. A swell of something that’s well beyond any distant appreciation of the revelation as a promising plot point. “Love at first sight, only . . .” 

“Not first sight.” He shakes his head and sinks to the bench again.  

“Then you remember? That’s great!”  Castle’s hand drops to his pocket. His phone. Beckett. He has to call Beckett. Or go get her. Except he wants to hear more. He’s torn in too many directions at once, and his mouth keeps running on. “If you remember falling in love—being in love—then you might . . .” 

“I don’t remember.” Preswick studies his hands. Whatever pattern there is in the cracked concrete of the floor. “It’s more like . . . I can’t forget her. Like no matter what’s happened—or could happen—some part of me would never forget her.” He frowns, not quite satisfied with the words. He looks up. An appeal Castle feels ill-equipped to answer. “I mean could you?” 

“Could I?” he echoes the words, not quite getting it. 

“Could you ever forget her . . . Detective Beckett. I don’t even know her first name.” He looks sheepish. “Or I forgot it.” 

Words fill his mouth.

_We’re not . . ._

_She’s not . . ._

_It isn’t . . ._

_Not yet . . ._

They fill his mouth. Clarifications and denials, but only her name makes it out. Only her name stirs the air. 

“Kate,” he says, knowing the real answer in his heart of hearts. “Her name is Kate.”

**Author's Note:**

> Part of me wants to write more of an ending for this, but I think I’ll leave it here. 


End file.
